Bernie’s Bad Day

I guess I would have liked to have gone out for pizza with the team. But what was the point? We’d just eat the same bad pizza we’d always eat at the Pizza Place, drink the same bad soda, like we’d done a hundred times before. What was the point?

But if I didn’t go, see, that’s what I wanted people to notice, to say, hey, where the hell is Bernie? And then they’d call me, and then I’d feel like saying yeah, hey thanks, but I don’t want them to know that I appreciate them calling me, so I say something like why the hell would I go to a dive like that, and then they’d tell me to get my head out of my ass, because that’s what I want, someone to snap me out of my bad mood because I don’t feel strong enough to do it on my own.

So I go to the Pizza Place, and it’s the same smell of soured dough that always hits me, and I don’t want them to know how much it means to me that they invited me, I gotta act like a complete jagweed and not respond to anything in a positive way. So I go through the evening not having a good time, but not having a bad time either, and all the time I want to embrace everyone and say thank you but I don’t have the courage to stand up to my bad mood and defy my feelings.

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